Rhapsodies of Dickinson, Whitman, Wordsworth and other writers of renown lift my mind and soul up to the sky then bury them in the ground. With their myriad thoughts of love, life, laughter and luscious lines of pain, releasing me to worlds of wonder before pounding me again. With words that tease and please the senses Of sight, taste and sound From days long past, yet still they last Eternally profound. With their sagacious seeds of wisdom planting jealousy in my head for the words I write by day or night are but a meager attempt instead.